“Jake… by inches. You got him by inches .”

As they rolled under yellow, Jake pulled up alongside the 99. Through the mesh of the driver’s window net, he saw Mateo. The kid’s face was a mask of concentration, sweat beading on his brow. He didn’t look over. He was staring straight ahead, seeing the finish line that was still twelve laps away.

Mateo stiffened, then relaxed. He pulled back and looked at the old man. The anger was still there, but underneath it, something else grew: respect.

“Copy,” Jake grunted.